When we began preparing to help Ricky unwind—turning down the lights, playing soft music, and setting out a cup of herbal tea—Sheba noticed how his shoulders tensed even more. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate it. It was that the gesture itself reminded him that he needed help, that he wasn’t as strong as he wanted to be.
Sheba approached him gently, her voice carrying the calm of someone who had learned to listen first and speak later.
“Ricky,” she said softly, “you don’t have to hold it together right now.”
He didn’t look up, just gave a faint, tired smile. “I’m fine, really. You don’t have to worry about me.”
But Sheba didn’t believe in empty reassurances. She sat beside him, close enough that he could feel her presence but not so close as to crowd him. For a few moments, there was only silence—the kind that says everything words can’t.
Then, she placed a hand lightly on his arm. “You know,” she began, “sometimes it’s okay to stop trying to be fine. Sometimes, the best thing you can do is just… let yourself be.”
Ricky let out a shaky breath, the kind that breaks through walls built over months of trying to stay strong. His eyes glistened, and for the first time that evening, he looked at her.
“How do you always know what to say?” he asked, voice thick with emotion.
Sheba smiled faintly. “I don’t. I just know what not to say.”
A small laugh escaped him, soft but real. It wasn’t much, but it was enough—a sign that the heaviness had begun to lift, even if just a little. Sheba leaned back, letting him breathe, letting the peace settle naturally.
In that quiet room, surrounded by dim light and gentle music, Sheba’s calm presence spoke louder than any words could. She didn’t fix him. She didn’t have to. She simply reminded him that comfort doesn’t always come from solutions—it often comes from being seen, understood, and accepted just as you are.
And in that simple, unspoken moment, Ricky began to unwind.
